Sex was a song they learned from each other⁠—how wrong it felt to sing it with anyone else. They first succumbed to the music three years before, when they were old enough to know better. Each time, they made love to the same harried rhythm, as if the sky would suddenly crack open above their heads and the earth were about to swallow them whole. If Laya had been half the fool her mother thought she was, she might have allowed herself to get swept away in the swells and the motions and the beats she knew by heart. But she kept one hand tangled in Luntok’s hair, the other firmly pressed against his collarbone. Laya was ready to push him back at any moment⁠—despite the queen’s disparaging remarks, Hara Duja had taught her well.

“You ought to go now,” she said afterward, when they were lying together in bed, their limbs entwined beneath the sheets.

Luntok bristled at her sudden coldness. He reached for her, annoyance rising in his tone. “Laya⁠—”

“Luntok, I’m serious.” Laya withdrew from his side and reached for her dressing robe. She yanked it on over her shoulders, almost tearing the fabric. It was hand-stitched from imported lilac pongee, more delicate than any other garment she owned.

He didn’t budge from the bed. Pain flickered in his eyes. His gaze burned. She felt it on the side of her neck even as she turned away.

This wouldn’t last either. The reminder left an acrid taste in Laya’s throat. None of this was Luntok’s fault, but she wanted to punish him anyway.

The mattress creaked when Luntok at last got up to dress. Regret sank in as she watched him slide his vest over his broad, muscled shoulders. He thought her haughty and cruel. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want this any more than he did. She resisted the urge to reach across the bed and shake him. Can’t you see how I ache?

“All of Mariit is talking. They suspect you’ll choose a husband soon,” he said as he laced up his shoes.

“Let them speculate,” she said coolly. Marriage was a dangerous subject. She knew better than to provoke Luntok’s jealousy.

With a weary sigh, he headed back to the balcony. Laya followed him, impatient to see him out. He paused, bracing his weight against the balustrade.

Laya’s eyes darted to the palace grounds. A passing guard could spy him in an instant and toss him into the hold. “What are you waiting for?” she hissed.

“For you to make up your mind,” Luntok said, tilting his gaze to the cloudless sky above. Much to Laya’s chagrin, he appeared blissfully unbothered by the threat of imprisonment.

“Make up my mind about what?” she demanded.

“About running away with me.” He turned to her with a cheeky grin.